The SoulCatcher
by Quixotic Coyote
Summary: um, yah. my first attempt at a fanfic. excuse the typos. Chapter two is up, yet incomplete. I realize I am rather bad at writing long chapters, and I apologize and will try to improve this weakness of mine. And I actually intend to make some headway on t
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The books in the _Redwall _series, including Mossflower Wood and other locales and Martin the Warrior and other characters, are not my intellectual property. The poem, as well as most of the characters so far, is what I've created on my own, but I of course ultimately owe my writing of this story to Brian Jacques. Because he rocks.

Characters I have created:

-Terry Rivenelg

-Hazel Brookberth

-The hare (still unnamed)

-Aurora

-Abbess Willow (name subject to change, since I realized that a Willow already exists in _Redwall _lore Willow is the name of one of the hares in The Long Patrol.)

I realize these chapters are painfully short, and I apologize. I assure you that they are unfinished, and I fully intend to fill them out in time. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated, as well as any suggestions for the Abbess' name. Thanks!

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_**Chapter I**_

Over the spread of Mossflower Wood, the sky began to lighten in preparation for the sunrise. Royal blues chased the deep azures that were receding through the once deeply violet sky, drawing back the shadowed curtains upon the trees and scrubs of the wood. While the entire populace of Mossflower was aslumber, one long-eared figure sat facing a flashing campfire, twanging his lute, wincing at the dissidence heard in the chords as he tuned his most prized possession. Finally satisfied with a quite beautiful and tranquil chord that he stumbled upon, he paused a second before singing rather loudly.

"_At this time of year, 'neath the willow's branches_

_Arrives the setting for second chances_

_Newfound love and blood still wet_

_Pays the fee: the warrior's debt_

_Embers of the past still glowing warm_

_Leaves still wet in the wake of the storm_

_The shadow of the past still deeply lingers_

_Behind all that hides from the present's fingers_

_Looking in the fire, I see my life_

_Past and Future, locked knife to knife_

_In a deep war where many innocents die_

_I've never known these flames to lie. . ."_

Being left unattended as long as it was, the campfire began to dwindle as a playful gust of wind blew through, whipping around the licking flames, in an attempt to brighten the foreboding mood set by the lone bard. It only managed to add to the somber tone.

"_The flames die down as my story closes;_

_A pallid soul lies down upon a bed of roses_

_Stares, unblinking, at the skies changing hues_

_That yearn and burn as this bard's muse. . ."_

The hare paused for a second, deep in thought. A second, sharper wind rolled by and he gave an expression of sudden inspiration as he begin to play again, with his ending finally in mind.

"_And so, fellow travelers, as you hear my tale_

_Spread out your wings and ride the gale_

_That casts Time's sands carelessly aside_

_Hold on tight, for it's a bumpy ride. . ."_

Finishing with a satisfied smile, the hare delicately placed his lute beside himself on the log upon which he sat. He winked to his wordless companion as he spoke aloud, "I'd say we have a bit of a journey on our hands, wot wot! It's still quite a ways to Redwall."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter II**_

From the diary of Hazel Brookberth, historian and recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower country.

_"In the shade of a lovely warm afternoon of late spring, I sit here, quill in paw. _

_The days are slowly lengthening, getting ever closer to the beginning of the Summer of the Flooding Dew. Abbess Willow thought it was most fitting, as one recent morning, on a walk upon the ramparts, she looked out to the plains to see what looked to her like a sea of dew, shimmering in the wind, like the breath of the trade winds upon the sea. As she was once at sea herself, we trusted to her better knowledge. And anyway, it sounded most beautiful and fitting to our ears. On this day, the Dibbuns are out playing in the orchard, running around in their various games. It seems our resident natural disaster, Terry Rivenelg, is out conning the rest of the Dibbuns out of their freshly plucked strawberries, that little rascal! That otter has always had a clever head on his shoulders, albeit a mischievous one. I'm watching him now, smirking at his huge pile of strawberries, while the Dibbuns are sitting there with pebbles. . . I'm not even going to ask him what he did and how; that little one is beyond me. The day is irresistibly sunny and warm, the sky pure and blue, save a few downy clouds that float overhead. All creatures in the Abbey today seem to be in good spirits. . . everybeast is giving compliments and gifts and the like out to their fellow beast. Well, except that Terry, of course. Oh! Would you look at that now! Our badger Aurora is berating Terry mercilessly. I feel rather bad for him, he's a good otter, through it all. I've heard snippets of conversation from some of the elderbeasts, and we may have a surprise banquet soon! I'm so excited, I can almost taste the lovely food now. Friar Fredericke, like all Redwall's chefs, is the leading culinary beast of his time. I shall update on this soon; but right now, I feel it is time to settle down for a nice lunch in the orchard, followed by a lovely spring nap._

_Hazel Brookberth, recorder of Redwall Abbey_

"How could you have done this?" asked Aurora in a gruff exasperated yell.

"Easy," replied Terry, with a huge grin upon his face.

"That's not what I meant!" shouted Aurora, obviously losing her temper, "I meant how could you bring yourself to trick the Dibbuns into thinking that the pebbles were special seeds that would produce a fruit bigger and tastier than any strawberry?"

"I was hungry, that's how. I was also going to make cordial too, if I could figure it out." Terry added with a wink. At this point, Aurora was too irate to speak, and was obviously trying with all of her might to remain calm. After a minute of deep breathing, she managed to mutter something about punishment as she grabbed Terry's ear tightly before being drowned out by his agonized yowls that seemed to fill the entire abbey. Amidst the pitying stares and exasperating muttering from those that he passed, Terry quieted down and resigned himself to his impending punishment, and even kept space in the back of his mind for his next scheme. _An artist must always be mindful of his medium, after all,_ he thought.


End file.
